G
by Dawley
Summary: Doctor William Birkin had never expected to use his life's work so soon after it's completion. Ironically, he would have to use it to save his life...


**G**

**Human**

'Doctor. We're here for the G-Virus.'

William Birkin took a step backwards, dragging the case along with him. It slid noiselessly over the counter top, gently nudging a folder and a test tube rack out of the way. In his right hand he held a gun, a plain handgun, one that he kept in a holster under his lab coat.

It likely wouldn't do much against the Umbrella soldiers in front of him, men that were dressed head to toe in protective gear, which would protect them from gunfire and other, far worse things. They held machineguns in their hands, which were trained on Birkin.

They didn't dare fire. Not yet.

'I can't let you do that,' said Birkin, his voice low and cool. He knew that he was faced with a life-or-death situation; death if he resisted and refused to hand over the case, and life if he simply gave it to them.

Then again, _what_ life? There was no way out of this. He would be dead, whichever way this standoff went.

'Doctor Birkin,' said the first soldier, 'let's not make this any harder than it needs to be. Give us the virus.'

'Sorry,' said Birkin again, taking another step back. 'This is my life's work. I can't let you just take that away from me.'

_Chink_.

Birkin's head whipped around to the floor and he got a glimpse of a beaker as it hit the floor, and white-hot agony tore through him. He let out a surprised gasp, letting go of his gun and the case, tumbling back onto the floor as bullet after bullet smashed into his chest and right arm.

Coughing, writhing in pain, Birkin managed to lift his head up. The two Umbrella soldiers were advancing, their guns still trained on him, though the lead soldier was looking back at the second. He was livid; this much was obvious despite his face being hidden behind a thick gas mask.

'You moron! You nearly hit the case!' hissed the lead soldier to the second one. His gun barrel was smoking lightly and several bullet casings were littered on the floor. The second glanced down at Birkin and grabbed the case, taking it from the counter and heading back to the lab's doorway.

The lead, though, lingered. He trained his gun on Birkin, then seemed to reconsider and lowered it.

'My apologies,' he said softly, his voice faintly muffled by the gas mask. 'Time to die, doctor.'

With that he turned, heading back to the lab's entrance, speaking through his headset to the other team members... doubtless they were nearby. How many of them?

It didn't seem important. Birkin pushed himself over to the counter, managing to prop himself up against it despite the pain, and began to cough.

'_William!_'

Birkin looked up. Annette was running over to him, her face a portrait of horror and despair. She skidded to a halt in front of him, her hands hovering over his injuries but not touching them, as if she were afraid of hurting him any more. Birkin tried to say something but all that came out was an agonised coughing, and a faint taste of blood came to his mouth.

'Don't... don't move, William,' Annette said, doing her best to remain calm; despite that, her voice was shaking. 'Don't move, I'll get the... just hold on. Wait here.'

And with that Annette was gone, leaving Birkin all alone in the lab.

The bullet wounds were still agonising, but the feeling from them was beginning to fade. Blood was already starting to wash down his shirt in a slow-moving tide, and he could hear the soft wheezing of air pumping in and out of the hole in his lung.

Not much time left, despite what Annette could do...

An idea came to Birkin, like a bolt of lightning through a dense fog.

Slowly, he looked up at the counter top. With some effort, he reached up with his left hand, feeling around for something... and he found it. Birkin wrapped his fingers around the syringe, pulling it back down.

He reached into his lab coat's pocket and pulled it out. It was a small vial, about the length and width of a finger, filled with a purple liquid that sloshed about gently. It was the only sample he had left.

The only thing that could save his life, too.

Birkin knew what the consequences would be. He knew the implications of taking the virus into his system, what could happen. The mutations that would result were highly unpredictable and based almost entirely on what the host was doing... who knew what was going to happen after he took the virus into his system?

Birkin didn't care.

He slipped the vial into the syringe's cradle, clicking it down into place. He had little to reflect on, apart from the fact that the thing he had worked on for so many years was now going to save his life. He looked over the syringe, making sure the automatic plunger was working, then remembered the blinding white pain in his arm and how it was fading every second.

Birkin stuck the needle into his stomach.

The G-Virus flooded into him.

x-x-x

**A.N.:** Blame a recent re-obsession with Resident Evil for this. Reviews and crits are appreciated. :D


End file.
